


The Lovers

by CheshWondaland



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Depersonalization, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Or so I think...., Other, Season 2 spoilers, Semi-sane characters, Suicidal Thoughts, sadfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 11:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30088074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshWondaland/pseuds/CheshWondaland
Summary: He remembers sunlight on red, the blinding quality. It had made him want to die. Bullets. Knives. Plastic baggies of drugs. They could never kill him in the same way Jerome Valeska did.
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Original Character(s), Jerome Valeska/Original Male Character(s)





	The Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> I was highly sleep deprived at three in the morning when I wrote this. Sleepy Chesh is highly depressing.... like every other version.
> 
> PS I’m not trans, I won’t pretend to understand how it feels. I literally just used my own experiences. (I depersonalize)
> 
> PS 2 Don’t be a dick, treat others how you want to be treated. Unless you’re a masochist. Don’t do it then. I repeat, do not do it.

The walls closed in, their hands holding onto her. A captive to desire, maybe her own or not, theirs. She couldn’t tell, he couldn’t tell. She became he because he was always there, it wasn’t new, buried. Buried under her parent’s words, parents that were not his, could never be his. What was his was a body that didn’t match his self image, that was fine. It was fine because everything was temporary, this shell was temporary. He’d get a better one next time but for now he’d enjoy this life. He’d cry, he’d laugh, he’d love. 

A gun, polished in splendor. It wasn’t in his hand. “You’re a freak.” A freak, just like 100% of the world’s inhabitants. A hand brings a lit cigarette to a mouth, not his. His hands tremble as they clutch clothes that feel wrong to wear. “I’m sorry.” He shouldn’t say sorry but he does because it’s all he’s ever said. 

A bullet rips through him, and another. He doesn’t notice until his brother is sneering at him from above as he lays there dying. He crawls for the phone, makes it there. “Help me.” People dressed in white alight with his battered body. They ask questions. He gives answers they don’t like. It’s Arkham for him once the bullet holes heal over. They say he’s crazy but if he’s crazy then they are too. 

A boy with fiery red hair talks to him, tries to sidle up next to him. “What are you in for?” He can’t say much. How do you say that you’re imprisoned for being yourself, that your existence is a crime? Fingers flutter in front of his eyes, like butterflies. “I’m not what they want me to be. Never what they want me to be.” He doesn’t touch the tears that fall, lets them be like everything else in his life. They fall. They fall. They fall. Until they no longer fall with the swipe of soft fingertips. Under speckled freckles, in a mouth his tears go. “Sounds right.” There’s relief. Why is there relief? He doesn’t know. 

A fight. Red hair becomes redder, blood mixing with natural pigmentation. He steps in, only cares for the savior of his heart, mind. His knuckles bruise. Teeth fall on the floor. Skin meets flooring. Rage courses through his veins. Rejection floods him, carries him away. He sings with it. Freckled hands push him away from prone men. Had he done that? Maybe. In the hallway corner he’s held onto, red all he can see. He goes to bed with a drying wet spot on his shoulder. 

Red hair disappears through the doorway along with others. He doesn’t fall asleep like those slumped on the tables. His footfalls are the only thing he hears. Every hall looks the same except for the flutterings of red that he catches from the corner of his eyes. He finds Red, a gun cocks. “Just take me with you, I’ll do whatever you want.” He joins them. Given directions to keep quiet unless he wants to be shot through. It’s fine. It’s always fine because this body isn’t his. Will never be his no matter what skincraft is used. 

A penthouse. Expensive furnishings. They’re lined up. Red hair whirls about as green stares. It’s surprise. He smiles in reassurance as he always does for Red. Threats, a body dropping, his hand covering freckled ones bound together. Agreeance, a deal made by people mad as hatters. There’s sanity in the single digits. Let go from bonds. A hug. The emptiness is disturbed. 

Red walks into his room. “Can’t sleep?” A nod. Covers are thrown, a body slithers under where they would be. An arm wraps around him. He covers Red. Shared breath. Spectation of one another. Heady emotions. Emotions that feel wrong. Emotions are wrong. That’s what they always said. But they feel so good. Water glistening on a picturesque face. He wipes it off. It’s harder to breath. He remembers sunlight on red, the blinding quality. It had made him want to die. He wanted to die. What was this? This breathlessness? Lips meet, soft. It’s soft. More. More. Until there’s nothing left, more. Draining his life. Replacing it with the death he had craved. The kind that he loved in the nights he was in the closet. The doll he pulled apart and put together. The sounds of yelling, the kitchen’s din. Was he dying finally? Was this the death he sought? In the arms of Red, a boy turned man with madness tainting him more as days pass? Or was this love? Was death love? Could it kill him with it’s presence? Kill the hate he had held onto? 

Love. It tasted like bitter water, tea. An acquired taste bubbling up to choke him with its stubborn cloying. Red doesn’t sleep without him. Visits every night to hold onto him for dear life. Like he’s Red’s sanity. He might be. After they throw carved men to their death the nights are worse. Red mutters gibberish in sleep, knuckles white as they clutch him. He whispers sweetness and Red quiets. It hurts to see the way death drains Red. Takes the liveliness the boy, man usually goes about with. The terrors start soon. They wake the others that first night. “Keep him quiet or I keep him quiet permanently.” He doesn’t sleep at all after that, too busy keeping Red soothed in sleep. Red never notices. 

It hurts. Everything hurts. His mind is torn to shreds. The police station, his nose bleeds. Red stops his performance out of concern, doe-y green watches him intently. He whispers. Red still looks at him in concern. “Go on, I’m fine.” He knew better but it would be fine. It had to be fine. Always fine. His teeth ache. Whether it’s from his permanent smile or blazing migraine he doesn’t know. He watches as Red continues to talk, talking for the camera. His smile falters when the woman in the chair spits in Red’s mouth. Red falters as well before asking the woman to do it again. His stomach roils. Not his stomach. This is an emotion. Disgust. Maybe. Anger. No. Disappointment. Yes. Is he surprised? No. The only thing close to satisfaction is when the woman gets her head blown off. It’s paltry. He didn’t want her death. Didn’t want anyone’s death. Maybe only his own. 

Yelling. It’s Red and he. It sounds like her parents. It sounds like dread. He can’t take it. Can’t take it. Can’t take it. Can’t take. Can’t. “I only came here for you, you ungrateful asshole!” He hears himself. He wishes it was silence instead. Why was he saying such horrible things? “Oh really? We were all brought here, we didn’t have a choice so what is your ass on about?!” Why is Red so angry? “I actually had a choice, run or follow your unconscious self! I chose to follow damnit! Maybe I shouldn’t have.” He’s sad, wants to fall down with its intensity. The pain. He’s clutching his head. “I should be dead. That would be better than this fucking waiting game.” His arms are snatched. “Waiting game?” Surely Red noticed? The blood. The pain. The crying. “I’m dying.” Red stumbles back. Freckles crumple as begging fills the air. “Jerome, it’s fine, I’m fine.” Green looks on incredulously. “How is that fine?! How is any of this fine?!” He clutches Red’s hands, presses his lips to their palms. “It’s fine because I’ve been dying since before I met you. You made it better, all of it.” Green glistens like emeralds. “Without you I’d have died without knowing what love felt like. Because I love you more than all the stars in the sky. I love you more than I will ever be able to express and every breath I take is all the better knowing I’m in a world where you are.” They embrace, Red is all he cares about. A listener laughs to themselves. He should have known. 

He’s the assistant. It’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong. The clothes are wrong, the act wrong. He wears his own clothes, silk. The act goes fine. But then they try to find the son of Gotham. The son of Gotham, a nickname her parents called the child. Everything goes wrong. One minute Red is going with the plan, the next he’s holding a rapidly cooling body. Love, it cools so fast. He can’t stop the wail that breaks from his throat. Death. His love is dead in his arms. There’s still a smile on Jerome’s face. He smooths it out. Laughs, it’s not normal. What is normal? Is it love draining to make way for hate? He stares, holds Jerome in his arms. There’s too much red. There should be less than this. There should be color in Jerome’s skin. There should be a cackle coming from his mouth. There should be something, anything. Jerome’s lips shouldn’t taste like blood. But they do. And there’s nothing to be done.

He sobs into a costumed chest devoid of breath. This chest had once held a beating heart. He had that heart in his grasp, cherished it. They tried to come near. He warned them away, held on for the sake of his sanity. Was there any sanity left? Any sanity for him to use? It hurt. It hurt more than the belt. It hurt more than the bullet. It hurt more than his slow death. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stop his throat from trying to cave. He couldn’t stop willing Jerome alive. That would mean he accepted it. That would mean it was real. “I love you, you damn basket case so wake up. You said we’d see the sunrise together. You said, said you’d be here. So why aren’t you waking up?” He wasn’t quiet in his grief. The shot that nailed him in the skull was deafening. He slumped over Jerome. 

By the time police wrestled the gun from Theo Galavan’s grasp it was too late. 

In the end Gotham consumes all.

The lovers. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Kudo, bookmark, comment, and subscribe. 
> 
> This isn’t gonna get a continuation so you can take it and run if you want.


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